22
(Garrett)
Stupid fucking dress.
It might show off the beautiful lines of Cara’s body, and the fabric might feel good under my hands as I trace her form, but it’s also a terrible design if you want a quick fuck in your truck before the soufflés make it to the table.
Cara makes a grunting noise that might not sound hot if it weren’t because she was trying to, yet again, hike up her dress far enough to straddle my lap. She’s up on her knees, the top of her head brushing the headliner, perched on the bench seat next to me, where I’m struggling to keep from latching my hands on to the bottom of her dress and splitting a seam open to fix the problem at hand. I can imagine the sound of the fabric tearing and my dick hardens even more when I do.
This was so much easier the night we ate barbeque and she was wearing her shirt-looking dress thingy. If she had that dress on right now, we’d both be coming down off the high of an orgasm already.
“I hate this dress.” Another tug, combined with a shimmy of her hips, attempting to work the fabric up from where it’s stuck a few too many inches down from where we both want it.
I try not to laugh but can’t stop when she thrusts her hands into little fists and then basically pratfalls backward to the bench seat. Thankfully, she lands on a down coat tossed there, which protects her head from whacking the door trim panel. She gives a frustrated wiggle to stretch her legs out on top of mine.
“Is it rude to say I agree with you?” I place one hand to the inside of her legs and say a silent goodbye to any hope for more here. “Because I hate the dress, too. I’d like to rip it into a hundred little scraps of expensive fabric. Then it would just be you in whatever you have on underneath. And the shoes. I’d like you to keep the shoes on.”
She groans. “Not helping. In retaliation, I feel compelled to tell you I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
I choke out my own groan. “Stop. I’m begging you.”
Cara lets out a devious but teasing hum. “It was a practical decision. This dress is so tight that even my slinkiest things were showing. Although I did debate putting on a bra for a bit. Mostly because I was worried about seeing you and my rowdy nipples saying, Hi, Garrett, we missed you, please touch us, the second you entered the room.”
With a smile into the darkness, I drop my head to meet the seat back. The cab is barely illuminated by a stream of light off a tall lamppost in the far corner of the lot where my truck is parked. From here the rear entrance to the restaurant is visible, a few of the kitchen staff milling around out back for a smoke break. The lot is full of trucks like mine and cheap beater cars, the opposite of everything Cara and I just escaped inside the restaurant. Here in my truck, we’re just us. The us that exists already, even after so few weeks knowing each other. The us that understands how we don’t make sense, but somehow we also do.
My hand slips higher, tracing the skin of her inner thigh until my wrist hits the bottom edge of her skirt. Cara murmurs something sweet but impatient, and with the heat of her near my fingers, I know exactly what she needs to turn that sound into sweet satisfaction. She needs a release, a few minutes where she’s less in her head and more in her body, when she doesn’t have to think or worry she’s anything less than perfect.
I know if we stumble out of this truck to go back inside and her mom says something cutting again or her dad’s lips are loosened even more by another scotch, shit’s going to get stupid in there. Cara will end up screaming or crying—or both. I sure as hell don’t want that.
I decide to reassess our situation here. While her skirt might not make it up to her waist so that she can straddle me, I think there’s enough room to give her what she needs with my hands. A little creativity and I might even be able to get my face down there. I slip my hand straight forward until the tip of my middle finger grazes the place where all her heat is centered. Cara makes a whimpering noise, then slaps one of her hands over my mine.
“Garrett, please. I’ll die if you start something we can’t finish.”
“Who says I’m not planning to finish?” Another tease, this time higher. “Pull your dress up as far it’ll go. I can make this work.”
Cara doesn’t protest or pause, just uses both hands to do what she can. We only gain an inch or so, but anything feels like a victory. I adjust so that I’m half leaning, my weight on one forearm so that my other is free to reach for her. Cara drops her legs open a bit more, and I slide my hand forward.
And at first I’m too focused on positioning myself to notice anything else, but when I ease my hand up, I realize something’s different. She’s smooth, but even more so than what I’ve come to expect.
“Christ, you feel different. Did you . . . You’re so smooth. It’s like fucking silk down here.”
I emphasize my point by running my fingertips over her mound, then down both sides, and then use my full hand, fingers spread wide, to cup her pussy with my hand. Cara twists her hips, letting out an appreciative sound.
“I got waxed yesterday. Brazilian. I didn’t know if you like this sort of thing; maybe it’s too porn star for your taste.”
I slip my hand out, pressing my fingers to her lips to quiet her from speaking such nonsense, and she sucks on the tips. My dick rears up when she tongues the flats of my fingers in the same way she does when she’s doing other porn-star-type things.
“Do you like it? ’Cause you didn’t need to do it for me. I appreciate your pussy no matter how it’s landscaped. Trimmed, edged, bonsai, whatever.”
A soft laugh from her. “Thank you, that’s good to know. But yes, I do like it. This is my usual look, actually.”
“Yeah? You haven’t . . . I mean, I haven’t seen you this way since you’ve been here. Again, not complaining—observation only. A complimentary, grateful, worshipping observation.”
“Tell me if I’ve missed it, but I haven’t seen a waxing studio in Hotchkiss. Is it near the co-op?”
I slip two fingers inside her just as she finishes her smart-ass comment and the last few syllables break down into a long groan. That’s what I like to hear. My thumb comes to her clit, gentle to start, slow strokes and circles.
“Well, I’m a fan of this look, so you know. And if you let me turn on the cab light, I’ll let you watch me prove it.”
She grabs a fistful of my hair. “Don’t you dare turn that light on.” Her hips shove up an inch or two, chasing the feel of my fingers inside her. “Because as much as I’d love to watch you prove it, I will kill you if you do.”
I move around to slide back and do my best to lie close to her, and then adjust her legs to accommodate the new position. Keeping my face up, I press my chin and mouth below the edge of her skirt. The hem is digging into my nose, but I don’t care. My tongue finds her, circling twice before centering all my attentions where Cara needs it most—and when I do, she lets out a wild moan.
Bingo.
I continue with my fingers, shorter strokes now, a pulsing rhythm I know she likes, then use my tongue to lick and suck as best I can. Cara starts to pant, her hips shoving toward my mouth when I suck her clit tight. Her taste covers my tongue, my chin, and her thighs are bracketing my head, keeping me where she wants. I turn every move deeper, faster, and more until she gives up a gasp that wants to be a scream but can’t be, not here. I soak up the feel of her, the way she’s letting go, even if it’s only for a moment, because I’m the one who gave her what she needs. And I love knowing that I did.
I kiss her there once more, until she’s completely spent and entirely limp, telling me thank you, and mumbling that she’s ready for her soufflé now.